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A Fall From Above	By : Poem Category: +G through L > Knights of the Old Republic Views: 25239 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, or any of it's characters. I make no money from writing this story.

Chapter List
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Alright guys, this one is gonna be a little darker. If you don't like rape/domination, it might be best to skip this chapter. And a lot more sex here than previous chapters. You have been warned.

As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!

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“Release me at once.”

Bastilla's voice was sharp and commanding, no hint of a quiver to the tone. She glared up at the man before her, eyes filled with righteous anger and indignation, and all the surety of the arrogant that he would do just as she commanded.

The man above her laughed a cruel, loud laugh, his ebony skin flashing in the dim light of the room. He had dark hair and darker eyes that could have been black or blue. He might have even been handsome if not for an unfortunately long nose that hooked cruelly across his face. Bastilla looked upon him unblinking, her eyes cold and steady, not even caring to examine the wicked smile playing across his lips.

“You're a little mouthy, for a slave,” he told her in a lower voice, growling the words to her as he leaned closer. “You might want to hold that tongue. It'll get you into trouble.”

“Slave?!” she cried, a fury trying to work it's way into her voice, though she fought it as best she could. “I am no slave. I am an officer of the Republic, and you shall release me this instant.”

“Oh, will I?” The man asked, the grin widening across his stubbled cheeks. “I don't think you're really one to talk like that, slave.”

The Jedi woman had to bite back her fury again, working to keep her calm, as she had been taught for so many years. There is no emotion; there is peace. The words sang in her head like a song, resonating through her, and sending waves of comfort from her head to her toes. Her heart rate slowed once more, and she looked to the man before her, trying to work everything in the purest of forms.

“What do you want from me?” She asked evenly, her tone guarded, but unafraid. This man was the only person in the room, she could see. And while he had a blaster at his side, it was holstered, and the only weapon he seemed to carry on his person. Even without her lightsaber, he should prove no problem for her. She did a quick scan of the area, searching for something she could use to strike the man, hopefully knocking him out. The shackles she could feel tight around her wrists might be more of a problem, but she would face that problem when she got there. Who knew, she might be strong enough to snap them. And if not, she was sure this man had a key somewhere on him.

“You don't know?” he asked, and she could see his teeth flashing brightly out of the corner of her eye. There was a table across the room that seemed to have a good number of things on it, but it was shrouded in shadows and she couldn't quite make anything out. A little closer was a leather chair that seemed to have a hover function with a black duffel back resting atop it. Maybe, she considered, as she glanced at the area a little closer to her. She was strapped to a table, a belt across her hips and another above and below her breasts. She could feel something cool against her throat, but she could move it without problem. The shackles at her wrists forced her arms to rest above her head, though they weren't pulled taught. The table itself was tilted down slightly, keeping her head above her feet, and there appeared to be a smaller table near her head, though she couldn't really see what was on it. Her eyes flickered back to the duffel back, deciding it was probably going to be her best bet, so long as there was something in it. And if not, she could always use the chair itself.

“Looks like you don't know quite the position you're in.”

The feel of cold metal pressed against her ribs shocked her, cold fear lancing its way into her throat, choking her. A blaster, she realized. He's going to shoot me.

The sound of the shot, and the bite into her side made her cry out in fear and pain together, a strangled sound that brought tears to her eyes. But it wasn't the terrible burning pain she had expected. Instead, the bite was sharp, like a blade slipping between her ribs, only smaller.

A needle, she realized, as she suddenly recognized the feeling. The fear had fallen back a little when she realized he hadn't killed her, but it swelled back up inside her with a fury.

“What did you shoot me with?” she asked, her voice sounding dangerously close to hysterical. Words of accusation and anger and perhaps even pleading flew to her lips, as a panic began to take hold of her. But non of them managed to escape. Her lips weren't listening to her anymore, it seemed. Her face fell slack, her head drifting slowly back to lay on the padded cushion behind her, and the rest of her body started to relax onto her table.

What . . . is this? She thought sluggishly, struggling to make any kind of coherent rational in her suddenly muddied mind. What did . . . he . . . do?

“What . . . ?” was all she managed to get out, and even that was muddled and unclear. The dark man beamed down at her with his wicked grin, his eyes cruel and joyous.

“Starting to understand, slave?” he asked, a cackle in his voice. “Starting to get what you are?”

He circled the table slowly, depositing the large dart gun on the table beside her head. His hands trailed along beside her, brushing against her side, her hips, her legs. A shudder went through her, but her body didn't show it. It only lay limp, and let him do as he pleased.

“DAS-430, neural inhibitor,” he told her, and there was an edge of excitement in his voice as he continued. “It'll keep you full paralyzed for up to 10 minutes. But don't worry, baby, you won't miss out on any of the feelings. You're senses are quite untouched, I promise.” He made a little sound of satisfaction, trailing one finger along her thigh as he passed, raising gooseflesh where he touched.

“Do you get it, slave? You're my plaything. You're at my mercy.” He laughed then, a cruel high laugh, stopping beside her and laying his palms flat against the table, just out of reach.

“So what should we do, slave,” he asked, looking down at her body with hungry eyes. “You killed several of my men getting you out of that damn pod, you know. I really think you should pay for that.” His hand snaked out to brush her stomach, running from her naval up to the bottom of her bra, tugging at the fabric lazily. “I think you should pay with you're body.”

Suddenly, a knife was in his hand. He flashed forward with the silver blade, slashing through the fabric of her underclothes with a keen precision that would have made any bladesmith proud. Bastilla didn't even have time for her sluggish mind to register fear before she could feel the cool kiss of the evening air against the bare flesh of her breasts. Two tiny pink nipples puckered in the sudden cold, and her body struggled to draw in a sharp breath.

Fear was coursing through her now. Not the choking, panicked fear from before. This one ran deep in her bones, the type of fear that came in heavy, steady waves, that would not be turned by mere mantras. She could feel the man's eyes on her, and even with her dragging mind, she didn't have any trouble working out how he thoughts she should pay.

NO! she wanted to scream at him. You will. Not. Touch me! She was a Jedi, above all base instincts, above all animal urges, above even human desires. She was a purity that was meant to shine on the world, to help cleanse it of the ever present taint. And she, she above all others, was pure enough to do so. She had never strayed from her path down that road. She had never let anyone touch her – not even herself. And she would die before she let this man be the one to destroy that.

I have to get away, she thought desperately, struggling against her dead body, against the restraints in her mind, against that deep aching fear.

Or I have to die, a tiny voice whispered, far in the back of her head. She did not acknowledge that thought, but it was there, nonetheless.

The dark man was beaming down at her with hungry eyes, not seeing her, she knew, only her body. His hands trailed across her exposed skin, brushing across her stomach, her ribs, between her breasts, up her throat and across her jaw. Bastilla felt the revulsion growing with the fear, just as deep and steady. But her flesh did not respond quite so harshly. Gooseflesh followed his fingers, and a tingling was left behind, like the lightest of static. He paused at her face to trail fingers lightly behind her ear, tucking away a stray strand in an almost tender touch.

The sound of his fingers brushing against skin was loud in her ear, and she did not see him bring his other hand up to graze roughly across her right nipple.

Bastilla sucked in a sharp breath at the feeling, her chest tightening unbidden and a little sound resting on her tongue, though her mouth never moved to make it. The tiny tingly that had danced along the trails his fingers made was nothing compared to the electricity that flashed through her from just that little touch. His hand feathered across her other breast before catching the nipple and twisting lightly before releasing it. Another intake of breath was the only response she could manage, though his mild teasing was sending her body into turmoil.

Her mind reeled at the assault, flashes of anger and outrage coursing through her. But her body's reaction warred with it. Everywhere his fingers brushed seemed to be lighting up nerves she had never known existed. The tingling was bright and powerful, not just registering warmth or cold or pressure, but something else with it. Her nipples were suddenly aching, puckering sharply, as if they were asking, begging for a touch, like an itch that must be scratch. The feelings faded from her skin as he moved his hand away, but they were gone. They buried themselves deep in her gut, coiling there, and making her wish desperately that she could move, not to escape, but to do something about the feeling.

Something must have shown in her eyes, because the man laughed again, high and cruel, a sound that buried itself almost as deep as that coiling. In that moment, she wanted nothing so much as to rip his throat out.

“Oh, poor little girl,” he laughed, crooning the words to her as if she were a babe. “Don't be mad. I won't hurt you.” His smiled twisted wickedly on his face, showing a flash of white teeth against the black skin. “Much.”

The cliché sent another roiling wave of anger flooding through her body, and she could feel the tingling left behind by his touch washed away by it. She was going to kill him. She was sure about that now. He still thought her some Republic Officer. But she was a Jedi. No paralytic could hold her the way he said. She only needed to pool her will, to call the Force to her as she had her whole life. And she would be free.

She tried. She really did. Her mind turned in on itself in a familiar motion, her concentration turning inward as she searched for that little notch, the reservoir inside of her that would call to the force. It took her much longer than it should have, and she felt oddly tired when she finally found it, as if it had taken physical strength to do so. But even as she felt it there, cool and comforting, her body was pulling her mind away from it once more.

His hands were roaming again, one rolling the soft flesh of a breast, pulling and pushing, kneading it like one might knead dough. It was foreign feeling, almost like a massage, but more. It didn't cause her skin to tingle like before, but it did add to the strange feeling in her gut.

His other hand was brushing across her skin once more, skimming over her stomach, between the valley of her breast, tracing around her belly button, teasing at the band of her underwear. It was distracting, costing her her focus when she needed it most. It had taken her so long to learn to tune out battles around her, but this was so much worse. Her breath caught again as he brought his hand up to brush around the nipple, not quite touching it, only threatening to. She felt dizzy, her heart starting to race as the trepidation filled her. When he finally touched it, it was harsh, two fingers whipping out to squeeze it hard between them. She wanted to cry out, in anger and pain and something she couldn't name. She could feel her back trying to tense, to arch, but her muscles would not listen to her.

He rolled the nub between his fingers, gentling his rough treatment to a mirror of the massage he was giving the other breast. His was saying something, too, but she couldn't make out the words. Her world was curling in on itself, tightening to include nothing but her and her breasts and the way his hands made them feel.

“This is wrong,” she told herself dazedly, struggling to pull away from the feeling, to reach for the force once more. But it was too much, the pinching, rolling of her nipple, the rough skin of his hands sliding across her breast, the pleasant pressure pressing and easing on the tender flesh.

Pleasant?

It was so hard to think now. As if the drug didn't just paralyze her body, but her mind as well. She felt sluggish, and confused, and all in all, too relaxed. Her breath felt funny, too quick in her throat, and she knew if her muscles would listen to her she would be making some sound. What sound, she didn't know, but she suddenly felt so relieved that she couldn't make it.

She was staring blankly up at the man's face, but she wasn't really seeing him. She hardly noticed his absence when he suddenly leaned down to hover just above her. She might not have noticed at all if his breath hadn't been splashing across her nipple, making it tighten again, and intensifying that feeling in her gut. “No,” she wanted to say, but weakly, so weakly. She hardly registered the thought.

Her world constricted tightly when his mouth covered her nipple. Even his harsh pinch had been nothing like this, the feeling of his wet tongue scraping across the nub, rubbing it back and forth. He caught it in his teeth, and she sucked in her breath, wishing desperately that she could cry out. She wanted to move too, to struggle and writhe, wishing her muscles would tense for her. But she stayed limp, as she was, and at his mercy as he continued his assault.

There was a warmth spreading from her breasts now, joining the tense pool in her gut, and sending waves of something deeper, lower, that had her wanting something she couldn't name.

His hand was roaming again, lower this time, back to the band at her waist. He tugged at the fabric, pulling it up and letting his fingers play under it, putting a pressure against her hipbone that had her breath catching again. He sucked greedily at the nipple in his mouth, and she felt a little vibration in the back of her throat, the tiniest hint of a sound. He was making a sound too, a deep humming, groaning noise that vibrating down to her little nub and had her gasping or air.

The hand at her waist had come back up to rest atop the fabric, and he was letting it trail from the band to her thighs, tickling the sensitive skin there. She could feel that coiling feeling tightening even more, and she wished desperately that he would fix it, since she couldn't. “Make it stop,” she wanted to tell him. “Make it better.” She didn't even know what she was asking for.

When his fingers pressed against the heat of her mounds, she did cry out, a tiny sound, nearly inaudible, but there nonetheless. A shockwave bolted from his touch to the coiling, and the muscles in her thighs jumped. The pressure was light, featherlight, and she wished he would press harder, please, please . . .

He pressed his fingers slowly down, finding the crease in her folds through the fabric and running one finger from the bottom, all the way up to another sensitive nub, hidden in those folds. She cried out again, this time a little louder, and she tensed, wishing desperately that she could press against it, to rub against it and find a release she needed so badly.

He released her nipple suddenly, cool air splashing against it, contrasting with the heat between her thighs. In a flash, the knife was in his hands again, and he slashed through the last bit of fabric she had, baring her to the world.

This time the cold helped to pull her some from her daze. Her mind sharpened in fear, the emotion pooling in her gut with the pleasure, mixing in a way that made her ill.

“No,” she wanted to cry. His cruel eyes were laughing down at her, and her was grinning in that wicked way. “Don't touch me, no, please, no.”

“What a surprise,” he said, his voice full of spiteful laughter. His hands found her bare flesh, one finger running the same path between her folds, and she felt how slick it was. Shame burned into her face, and she wanted so desperately to kill him, to run and hide, and have him bleeding on the floor.

“The Jedi's a little slut.”

The last of her strength fell away as he sank a finger inside of her. “He knew,” was the last thought she could manage before the pleasure blanketed her mind. She had never experienced something like this. She had no defense for it. The feeling of his finger, curling inside her, meeting that deep, desperate ache, was too much. She couldn't think anymore, couldn't find words or anger or shame. Her throat made a low, strangled sound, and her eyes rolled up as she tensed around him. It just felt too good.

He laughed somewhere far away, but she didn't even hear it. Her world had shrunk again, including nothing but the finger inside her and the thing coiling around it.

He didn't move for a moment, just pressed inside her. Then slowly, lazily, he pulled it almost completely out, only to shove it inside her again. A tiny cry fell from her lips as he repeated the process over and over again, finger-fucking her and laughing as he went. Her mind blanked out, nothing existing but the feeling and she felt her body coiling around him. Something was going to happen very soon, she could feel it.

He stopped suddenly, pulling his finger from inside her, still laughing.

“You're going to cum,” he told her, his voice filled with a wicked glee. “Just from a finger. Such a slut.”

She could hear something, fabric moving, but she couldn't identify it. The table she rested on shifted, and her hazy eyes flicked down to see he had climbed up onto it with her, crouched over her like a predator, teeth flashing in that wicked grin.

“What'll you do with this, I wonder?”

Bastilla felt something hot push against her, spreading her folds with force. Her breath jumped harshly, and she squeeked in surprise. It was big, so much bigger than the finger. “That won't fit,” she thought wildly, but her mind blotted out again as he pressed it deeper, pushing past her defenses to rest it almost inside of her. Her eyes flicked up, finding his face inches above hers. She could see the joyful malice in his eyes, could see that hungry look there. Fear and anger and pleasure mingled tiredly inside her, warring as she struggled, until finally, the pleasure won out.

She cried out, her voice stronger than before, as he shoved himself inside her. “So full,” she managed to think, before he rocked hard into her, wiping all thought from her mind. There was nothing gentle about him as he fucked her. Each thrust was hard and brutal, meeting her depths and sending stabs of pleasure and pain shooting through her. If she had the voice, she would have screamed. But as it was, all she could manage were deep, guttural moans, reverberating deep in her chest.

Her world had shrunk again, so tiny as to include nothing but the feeling. It was a terrible pleasure, pulsing through her with a force she had never felt before. Nothing she had experienced in her life had prepared her for this brutal pleasure, and she had no defenses to fight it. Her body had not been her own since he had shot her, and she could do nothing to control it as it writhed weakly beneath him. Her legs had tensed pulled slightly up off the table and pressed into his legs, to fight him or hold him there she did not know. Her arms had twisted weakly to fight against her bonds, but she had no where near the strength needed to escape. And her back had arched up off the table as she cried out with each thrust.

She could feel it so sharply when it started to happen. Her muscles tensed harder, her body coiled, and that feeling in her gut was so tight she was sure it was going to break her. His cock was hitting her so deep, rubbing against her with each thrust, driving her insane. Her head started to thrash back and forth as she fought, terrified of what was coming, but with no way to escape it. She had coiled to far, she couldn't g any farther, she was going to break.

And then she exploded. Pleasure washed over her with such force she felt like she was being electrocuted. A thin wail came from her throat as she arched up, her orgasm pushing her past the point of no return. It seemed to go on for hours, wave after wave washing over her body as he fucked her still. By the time he came inside her, groaning and wrapping a hand around her throat as he stiffened, she hardly noticed. Her world had shattered into a million pieces.

Bastilla fell into a heap beneath the dark man, dead to the world, her hazy eyes staring off at nothing. Her breath was ragged, her chest glistening with sweat as she she heaved. He had moved from on top of her, his cock pulled from inside her, but she never noticed. For an eternity, she just laid there, trying to regain her broken pieces.

The feeling of the gun biting into her side once more snapped her from her reverie.

“No,” she cried weakly, but he was already walking away from her laughing that high, cruel laugh of his.

“Oh, we're not done yet,” he told her as he made his way to the dark table she hadn't been able to make out across the room. He flicked on a lamp, casting a bright light across the objects arranged carefully on the metal surface. Her stomach curled in terror as she recognized a long thin knife, a leather whip, a coil of rope. There were other things she had no name for, strange metal clamps with chains between, a sleek blue instrument next to a remote, and a whole line of suspicious phallic objects, ranging in size from small to obscenely large.

“No,” she said again barely audible as the paralytic took its toll again. She could only watch in terror as the dark man careful picked out a slender object and the blue instrument and remote, stalking towards her with that same hungry look in his eye.
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A Fall From Above